The Woman in the Photo (32 page)

JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

Present

T
he smell of roasted garlic and lemons saturated the Eggar kitchen. Elizabeth set the table while Vida stood before the open oven door to suck pan juices into a baster and squeeze them over the mound of crackling brown skin.

“You live here with your dad?” Elizabeth asked.

“For better and worse.” Vida sighed. “I'm afraid there's no one else. I never married and I have no kids. Dad, well, he won't admit it, but he needs help. Without me, he would sit in that chair and starve. So, there you go. You do what you have to do. What about you? Brothers? Sisters?”

“One brother. Scott. He's twelve years older. A rebel. Right now he's living off the grid in Idaho. And my dad, well, let me just say that my mom is the only person who stuck around.”

Looking slightly stung, Vida shut the oven door and hurried to the sink to rip lettuce for a salad. Just then, the screen door creaked open.

“Gotta oil that,” Gene tossed over his shoulder as both men entered the kitchen. “Smells ready,” he said to his daughter. To York he added, “Bathroom is second door on the right.”

Without another word, the two men left to wash up. In a low voice, Elizabeth said, “He still hates me.”

“He—” At the sink, Vida searched for the right words. In a whisper, she said, “Let's just say you're a
reminder
.”

“Not a
happy
reminder of his daughter?”

Vida shook her head no. After glancing down the hall, she whispered, “Dad did exactly what Elizabeth Haberlin's family did. He disowned my sister. When she got pregnant, he kicked her out. When she needed him most, he turned his back on her. I was in college at the time, in Pittsburgh. I never should have left her alone.”

“Alone?” Elizabeth asked. “What about my birth
dad
?”

Vida snorted. “That jerk took off the moment he found out about you. I don't even know his name. Vera told me they met at the Cambria County Fair. My sister, well, she didn't always make wise decisions.”

Sporting a happy-go-lucky grin, York bounded into the kitchen and inhaled. “I have died and gone to heaven.”

Elizabeth felt a wave of warmth for her newly declared boyfriend. Having him with her was the wisest decision she'd ever made. Never had she met anyone so comfortable in his own skin. That boy could be at home anywhere . . . except, perhaps,
his own parents' home that was overstuffed with their expectations.

Incredibly—though it was only the
second
time they'd been together in the flesh—Elizabeth felt like she'd known York forever. The previous week, with Elizabeth on the West Coast and York on the East, they had pressed their FaceTime screens against their hearts to hear them beating in sync. How had she gotten so lucky?

Like a thundercloud, Gene blew into the kitchen and frowned. “Don't burn that bird,” he said.

Too brightly, Vida chirped, “Okay, then. Elizabeth, will you please pour the dressing on the salad while I get the chicken out of the oven? And, Dad, will you do the honors?”

“I'll need to sharpen a knife.”

“It's sharp enough, Dad. York, could you please bring our cider glasses in from the living room.”

With a nod, York scampered off. Vida darted around the small kitchen like a chipmunk scurrying from nut to tree. She pulled the chicken out of the oven, forked it onto a cutting platter, grabbed tongs for the salad, handed them to Elizabeth. York returned carrying four glasses of cider in his two hands. “Don't worry,” he said to Elizabeth's alarmed expression, “I know which glass belongs to which person.”

Vida laughed. “Vera was a germophobe, too.”

With a large knife in one hand and a big fork in the other, Gene looked momentarily confused. “Cut as many pieces as you can, Dad,” Vida said. “Here, York, let me take those glasses. I'll pour fresh. Elizabeth, why don't you sit here. York, there.”

Amid the scraping of chair legs across linoleum, they sat.
Vida set the salad bowl in the center of the table. She brought four new glasses from the cupboard and filled them with fresh cider from the fridge. In concentrated silence, Gene carved up the chicken. York gently squeezed Elizabeth's knee under the table. For a long minute, no one said a word. They scooped salad onto their plates and oohed and aahed over how good it all looked.

“Might as well tell her,” Gene said, abruptly. “It's her past, too.”

Elizabeth's breath stopped short. Her gaze shifted left, then right. From Gene to Vida. And back again. Gene set the carving utensils down and sat. With his own fork, he stabbed a piece of breast meat and set it on his plate. Then he reached for the salad bowl. Vida asked York, “Leg? Thigh?”

“I'm a thigh man,” he said, his white teeth gleaming.

“Tell me what?” Elizabeth asked.

As Gene chewed with his head down, Vida looked exasperated. “Can we please just have a pleasant lunch?”

“No time like the present,” Gene blurted with his mouth full.

York accepted the chicken thigh, then set about eating it earnestly. Elizabeth stared at Vida. “I'd like to know, really,” she said. “Whatever it is.”

With a loud sigh, Vida adjusted her silverware. She shot her dad a look. “Okay, then.” She took a fortifying sip of cider. “What dad is talking about, well, my sister, your birth mother, she had, um,
issues
. She was depressed. She'd always been sort of
dark.
Even as a kid, she was permanently braced for disaster.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush.

“Medication helped,” Vida went on. “But not enough. And after you were born, well, there was
postpartum
depression on top of everything el—”

“Oh.” As if a ray of sunlight had just illuminated a cobwebby corner, Elizabeth suddenly saw clearly. “She drowned
herself,
didn't she?”

York's head shot up as Gene and Vida examined their plates.

“Yes,” Vida said quietly.

Strangely, Elizabeth felt as though she'd known all along. “Where?”

“Where?”

“Where did it happen? Where did she do it?”

“Portland, Maine. I have no idea why she chose there.”

Gene stabbed another piece of chicken.

“Somebody saw her climb onto a cliff with you,” Vida said.

“I was
with
her?”

Vida nodded. “You were a baby, wrapped in a blanket. A witness saw the whole thing. He said he couldn't be sure, but it looked like she was about to jump. With you in her arms.”

The only noise besides Elizabeth's involuntary gasp was the scraping of Gene's knife and fork on his plate. He never once looked up. York, too, chewed his chicken in silence.

“But she didn't do it, Elizabeth. I mean, obviously. She didn't jump with you. She set you down. She saved you.”

Again, York reached his hand under the table to squeeze Elizabeth's knee. Almost in a whisper, Vida added, “Her body washed ashore about a mile away. But they quickly found you on top of that cliff, tucked into the hollow of a rock.”

“A
lawyer
called me,” Gene grumbled, now jabbing at his salad. “Damn lawyers.”

Vida forced a smile. “She was thorough, my sister. She'd set things up.”

“Didn't want me to have you,” Gene said, coldly.

“She'd already signed adoption papers, hired a lawyer and everything. Explicit instructions were found in your blanket. A
closed
adoption. She didn't want you to know about her. She didn't want you to feel like you were genetically cursed.”

Those two words hung in the air.
Genetically cursed
. Was she? Did the fact that she, too, was always braced for disaster mean that she was doomed to crumple under the weight of life?

“Vera insisted that her favorite photo was included in your adoption file. It was taken after the flood. Elizabeth Haberlin standing with Clara Barton.”

“I saw that photo!”

“My sister loved that picture because it captured the resilience and determination of women. She wanted her daughter to take after Elizabeth Haberlin, not her. She wanted you to
survive
all the disasters that life will throw at you.”

Elizabeth sat back in her chair. Her emotions were tangled into a hairball. Her birth mother had gotten what she wanted. Elizabeth
did
feel more connected to Elizabeth Haberlin than to her. Maybe she would emerge from her current crisis better than she was before. The idea of it cheered her. But, more than anything, she felt incredibly grateful. Her stormy birth mother had given her an amazing gift: Her sunny mom, Valerie.

“Did you make dessert?” Gene asked, done.

“Elizabeth hasn't even started her lunch, Dad.”

“Oh.” He sighed, gruffly.

Elizabeth smiled at her grandfather. Picking up her fork, she reached for the platter to stab a leg.

That was that. Now she knew.

For the remainder of their lunch, they chatted amiably about droughts and floods and ice storms and blistering sunlight that never let up.

JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

Present

O
ne train in from Pittsburgh in the morning, one train out at dinnertime. After the chicken had been consumed down to its carcass, Elizabeth and York still had hours to kill. But they said their good-byes long before it was time to meet the six
P.M.
Pennsylvanian back to the city that sat proudly over the confluence of the Ohio, the Allegheny, and the Monongahela rivers. There was a lot to see in downtown Johnstown.

After lunch, Gene grunted farewell.

“Cordless drill is the only power tool a city dweller needs,” he said to York. To Elizabeth, he said, “Now you know all that's worth knowing.” Then he shuffled back to his chair.

Before they left the house, Vida took Elizabeth aside and said, “I have one more thing to show you.” Scooping up her niece's hand, she quickly led her upstairs. In her bedroom, with its ornate ironwork bed frame and dark wood dresser, Vida
opened a jewelry box and pulled out a roll of velvet. In the velvet's unfurling, a diamond bracelet was revealed. Its rose-cut diamonds sent flickers of light bouncing about the room.

“This initially belonged to Elizabeth Haberlin's grandmother. She took her own life, too.”

“Wasn't Elizabeth Haberlin wearing this in the photo I just saw? The one at the piano?”

“Yes. She wore it everywhere. She never took it off,” Vida said.

Elizabeth glanced down at her own wrist. Her own heirloom.

“This bracelet has been in our family for generations,” Vida said. “Now I want you to have it.
Vera
would want you to have it.”

Elizabeth took a step back, stunned. “It's beautiful, but I can't accept it. Thank you, but no.”

“I don't have any heirs. I'm the last of our line. And it's too sentimental to sell.”

“Sorry. I can't.” Elizabeth made a motion for the door. Not wanting to hurt Vida's feelings, she didn't voice the thought in her head:
I have my
own
bracelet, from my
own
grandmother.

Vida sighed. “I'll save it for you, then.” She rewrapped the velvet. “One day you may have a daughter who wants a connection to your past.”

Before Elizabeth left the room, Vida said, “One more minute.” Then she walked over to a shelf by the window and pulled out a manila envelope. “Will you at least take this?”

“What is it?”

“Something to read on the train. An Eggar family tradition. We pass it on to our offspring. Meaning, it's now meant for you.”

Elizabeth held the envelope, unsure what to say.

“No arguments. Put it away. Read it later,” Vida said. “It's something to take with you . . . through life.”

Elizabeth nodded. Vida hugged her niece hard and whispered, “Now that we've met, you're welcome to visit anytime. I'll always be here.”

Surprising herself, Elizabeth threw her arms around Vida and hugged her—hard—right back.

As they descended the stairs to the front door, Elizabeth stopped and turned around. “Oh. I almost forgot,” she said. “I have one more question. The breast cancer gene?”

Vida laughed. “That Ashkenazi thing?
Pfft.
You're probably fine. I've been tested, and I was negative. You can get tested, too, down the road. For now, forget about it. Relax and live your life.”

Funny, that's exactly what she planned to do.

THE ALLEGHENY MOUNTAINS

Present

B
y the time they reached Horseshoe Curve around the old Altoona reservoir, York was deeply asleep. The train shimmied side to side. Elizabeth listened to the sound of his breathing. It reminded her of the ocean. Ebbing and flowing. The endless motion of life. The final sound her birth mother heard before jumping.

Glad she'd come, Elizabeth was even happier to be going home. She couldn't wait to open the pool-house door and wrap her arms around her mom's shoulders, inhaling Valerie's apricot shampoo.

Quietly, she stood up and crawled around York to reach the overhead rack where she'd stashed her backpack. With the sun
darkening to orange, she untied the top string and pulled the pack open. She reached in and retrieved the manila envelope Vida had given her. Then she shut her pack and carefully crept back to her seat by the window. In the fading light of the Allegheny foothills, she opened the envelope and pulled out a letter. An
old
letter—encased in a plastic page protector. Her heart lurched when she saw who wrote it: Elizabeth Haberlin, Johnstown, Pennsylvania, 1892. The heading read “Letter to my future child.”

Darling Son or Daughter,

You are almost born. Only two more months. At times, I am certain you are a boy for your strong kicking. Just as often, I am convinced that your father and I have created a feisty girl. Either way, we are both so very eager to meet you.

I am writing this letter in a moment of tranquility. The past years have been filled with many joys and sorrows. I have come to understand much about life from the depth of both emotions. I now know the heart's capacity to be filled as well as broken. I have seen propriety supplant love. I have also witnessed love triumph over all. One thing I know for certain is this: You will be born with the strength to survive whatever may come your way. You could not be our offspring otherwise.

In my imagination, I envision you with my dark hair and eyes. I fear you will inherit my stubbornness, too. And I pray you will grow up with your father's goodness and generosity of spirit. In all of the world, I could not have made a better
match. God smiled upon me. Yet, of all the qualities your father and I might pass on to you, my dearest child, I hope you are blessed with one quality above all others: a mind that is yours alone.

Please remember this, dear one: Birth is not fate. You must create a destiny that is yours. Uniquely yours.

Many voices will seek to influence you in your long life. Sad experience has shown me that even family members can disappoint. And so, as I await your entrance into the world, I have but one request for you to hold dear. When those around you are shouting or commanding or cajoling, find a quiet corner away from all distraction. Still yourself long enough to hear one—and only one—voice. That is the voice inside you. The judgment of your heart. Forever follow your heart's direction and you shall never be led astray.

Yours Affectionately Forever,

Mother

Leaning back against the soft cushion of the train seat, Elizabeth pressed the letter to her chest. Her heart beat into it. At that moment she knew one thing for sure: everything was going to be okay.

Suddenly an idea popped into her head. The topic for a new college essay. She would tell her story. Her
history
. She would pose the question she'd wondered for years: Is DNA your destiny? Now she knew the answer.

Beside her, York stirred. He yawned and stretched his arms
overhead. Elizabeth saw a flash of his tanned stomach, the ripple of muscle beneath his smooth skin. Seeing the letter, he sleepily asked, “Words of wisdom for you, Elizabeth?”

Looking into York's kind eyes, seeing his generous soul, she grinned. “Call me Lee. It's the name my mother gave me.”